We hadn’t expected to find the Bedouin. We had gone out to Israel in search of answers, in search of some kind of inner peace in the face of an unanswerable tragedy. We wanted to see the place where it had happened; where our 25 yr old son had catapulted himself into oblivion over a hairpin bend. We wanted to lay unspoken thoughts to rest.

First there were the ceremonies to go through. The Matzevah; unveiling of his tombstone. Uri is buried on a mountainside in Jerusalem, and if one could ever wish for a burial ground with a breathtaking view; this is it. The day was sunny and warm for early February and the assembled crowd stood silent in the face of their own mortality, as the eulogies were said, the inscription read. A large crowd; and people kept on coming, and seeking me out..I could almost hear them whispering... she’s the Mother, you know...and where is the widow? which one is the widow? It was easy to assume that my daughter Tammy was the widow for she wept the loudest and most openly of all the young women; but Leora stood silent and pale next to her father and did not weep. To imagine her young husband lying under that huge stone edifice was bad enough; but to be openly gawped at and viewed like an exhibit was what she had feared most. I did not cry at the Matzevah. I expected I would; I had cried a lot at unexpected moments; but I stood there dry eyed..and only one thought drifted like smoke through my troubled mind; This is where I want to be buried too. Right here, next to my son. On this mountain where now he lies, so alone.

People came up to me murmuring platitudes....so tragic...so terrible..be strong...you are so brave..so remarkable... I didn’t feel remarkable at all. The thought still filled me... I hope he knew I loved him as he died.

My friend Miri from the occupied territories came over to me. We had been schoolchums from age eleven. I fell into her arms and at last, luxuriously, I wept..and she wept too.

Back at our house everyone ate biscuits and drank whiskey, Dramboui and fizzy drinks and chatted as if it was a party. Jews don’t traditionally have wakes, yet what was this if not a wake? I wanted them to leave. I wanted everyone to leave...except the ghost of my son, who still hung around me like a shroud of my own.

The next day, quiet at last. My family had all gone back to England..only the Israeli contingent remained, my next son Azariah, who had promised to compose a beautiful song for Uri with me, and my daughter Avigayil, her husband and children who lived in Bnei Brak. But for now..Joseph and I were alone.

In the afternoon we met with Rabbi Gelbstein, the head of the Burial Society. A handsome bulk of a man, beautifully turned out, he sat impressively behind a large desk in a smart suite of offices. We talked about buying two plots near Uri. As we talked, I looked around the room. On the wall there was a large aerial photograph of a funeral, showing a number of streets black with people.

"Who is that?" I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

"That’s Reb. Shlomo Zalman Auerbach’s funeral," Gelbstein replied, confirming what I had thought, "I did that.". He spoke as a caterer might about a wedding dinner of which he was particularly proud. "I did that."

"We want to find the Bedouin who first found Uri," Joseph said, "we want to thank him. If it wasn’t for him, Uri’s body might have lain there indefinitely.".

"Yes, it is invisible from the road," Gelbstein agreed, "he was a good Arab..he didn’t plunder the body at all..but how to find him? That’s the question."

He made a few phonecalls trying to speak to the police. He hung up with a sigh. "They have closed the files. As far as they are concerned, its over."

Two days later, Joseph’s cousin Danny came round for the specific purpose of taking us to the accident site. "Maybe we will find the bedouin, who knows? Doubt it though," Danny said with a shrug.

He drove us out of Jerusalem and into the Judean desert. It was warm here, shirtsleeve weather. The road grew winding, narrow, steep. Oh..so ..this is the road...

"It’s just up ahead," said Danny, and drew up at the roadside. We got out of the car...mindful of careering cars going far too fast down the steep narrow road..

"Look," Danny said, "Beduoins."

An arab giving camel rides at the exact spot of Sea Level . Danny went up to him and asked him if he had seen Muhammed Ibin Abdullah. The Arab spoke swiftly in pigin Hebrew mixed up with Arabic. Danny turned to us.

"He said his name is Hamil Ibn Abdullah and he lives over there..." he pointed into the middle distance at a bedouin encampment on the rocky mountains. We stared, disbelieving.

"How on earth are we meant to get over there?"

"I will show you..there is a road, a small road." The Bedouin got into our car casually and Danny drove. He directed us to a tiny crack in the roadside where indeed a narrow road led off. The crack was just about big enough for a car to enter.

He got out of the car, mission accomplished. Joseph took out $20. The Bedouin looked very insulted.

"No money! We are all brothers! Sons of Ibrahim!" He left us, muttering.

"Oh dear," Joseph said.

"Never mind," Danny said, "Let’s go..as far as I can drive, anyhow."

He drove gingerly along the narrow rocky path towards the mountains. The terrain was lunar. No vegetation that we could see, just rocks and sand and mountains. A herd of scraggy mountain sheep and goats led by some small barefoot children, moved out of the road to let us pass.

"That’s it," Danny said, pulling up. "I cant go any further." We all got out and stared ahead at the rocky path. Danny is a short stocky man with a close cut crop of ginger hair, a winning smile and big expressive brown eyes. He and Joseph trudged off across the mountain path with me struggling to keep up the rear. I blessed my newly bought boots with their good strong grips. But my short legs didn’t work as well as their long ones and I lagged badly behind. In the distance I saw them breast the crest of the hill and approach the bedouin encampment. Corrugated tin, goatskins and sticks made up the ramshackle tents. On the ground in front of them a small arrangment of cushions.

I saw Joseph and Danny sit down on them, with three Arabs, in a circle. I approached the circle and was invited to sit down. Awkwardly I sat on the hard cushion and looked at the three Arabs.

The one on my right was dressed in western clothing, the other two in traditional arab clothes. Danny and Joseph told me that the one opposite me was *our* Bedouin. A middle aged man with bad teeth wearing the traditional headdress and barefooted, he smiled and nodded as Danny spoke to him in broken arabic and spoke through the modern Arab in Hebrew.

In a few short sentences of broken Hebrew/Arabic, Danny told *our* Bedouin that we were the parents of the dead boy he had found and how grateful we were. He nodded and smiled, but said little.

"What were you doing in that ravine?" Joseph asked in Hebrew. The modern Arab translated.

"I go with my sheep, to seek water," he replied, "it rained two nights before."

That made sense..the accident site ended in a hollow where water would gather. Danny asked him a few more questions just to ascertain he had the right person..and he gave details no imposter would have known.

I stared into his dark fathomless eyes trying to see what he had seen, experienced what he must have done when his gaze first alighted on my son lying face down in the ageless earth. I decided not to speak too much; protocol was important here and rituals strenuously observed. I was to consider myself extremely lucky to be sitting with the men at all; I had seen completely separate tents for the women further along the track. To dominate the conversation would have been way out of order.

As the delicate negotiations continued, there was a sudden loud bleeping. It was Danny's mobile phone! With an embarrassed cough and amidst stifled giggles he answered it.

"Oh hello Keith..erm..listen..I am in a very difficult situation right now...can I call you back a bit later?". It was so like the advertisments for mobile phones that it had us in barely controlled hysterics for quite a while.

When we had all calmed down again, Danny said nervously: "These English people, when they wish to show gratitude, have the custom to give a gift. Will you accept a gift from them?" There was only a minimal hesitation before he nodded. I drew out of my carrier bag a Sony Walkman and a packet of duracel batteries. He accepted it with a smile, and we smiled back, having noticed many cassettes lying around on the ground in front of us. What, after all, could one give a dweller in the desert?

A few more niceties exchanged and we left. As we trudged down the steep rocky pass a sense of unreality pervaded me. I wanted so much to have taken photographs but Danny had warned me that they think a photograph captures their soul.

We drove back to the accident site, and clambered down the ravine. My delicate stockings tore on the brambles and thorns. At one point I stopped, refusing to go further..the descent into the final hollow was too steep and I was afraid. Joseph and Danny finished the descent and I stood watching, wishing, not for the first time, that I was psychic and could sense Uri’s last thoughts in this, the last place he had drawn breath. Joseph handed me fragments of his study books; I held them and looked at them but felt only emptiness. The wreckage of his car, whilst moving, held no memories for me; it was a rented car. I looked up at the edge of the ravine and shuddered as I imagined his final fatal plunge.

"Have you been here long enough?" Joseph asked me gently.

"Yes," I said. "Lets go. I can leave this place now. I can close this place in my mind."

Turning, I began the ascent. I didn’t look back.

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